


Revenge Is a Confession of Pain

by Lorien



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=12446444#t12446444">prompt</a> over at <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/">sherlockbbc_fic</a>.</p><p>After TGG Sherlock wakes up in hospital. Believing John is dying he sets out to find Moriarty and avenge John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge Is a Confession of Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks for my betas [esteefee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee) and [pollitt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt)!

_Revenge is a confession of pain. --- Latin Proverb_

* * *

Sherlock returned from unconsciousness to the sound of beeping machines. Even with his mind only working at half its usual speed, it almost immediately supplemented him with the conclusion he was inside a hospital room based on the noise that had to belong to medical equipment. The distinct smell of antiseptics strongly supported it as well.

Not ready yet to open his eyes Sherlock continued to catalogue the situation. Apart from the beeping the room was quiet; he had to be alone in it. Faint footsteps coming from the right indicated a door to the hallway there and, judging by the audibility of those steps, the door was ajar. On the other side of the room was a window. Sherlock could feel the high-standing sun shining directly on his face. It was a source of warmth in an otherwise slightly too cool room. Trace smells of stale coffee and ink underneath the antiseptic told him that someone had left a mug and a fresh newspaper beside his bed.

 _Mycroft?_

It had to have been bad if his brother had been sitting vigil by his bedside.

That prompted Sherlock to steer his attention to his body, just now becoming aware of all its aches and hurts. There was a thick bandage around his left shoulder. Careful testing proved movement to be painful but at least everything seemed to be working as it should. Underneath was probably only a flesh wound, as the motion triggered the feeling of stretched stitches. More bandages were wrapped around his ribcage, which in combination with the trouble he had when breathing in too deeply, spoke of cracked - maybe even a couple of broken - ribs. Nothing new. It wouldn’t be the first time in his line of work that he had to function with this kind of injury. But at least it didn’t feel as if there were any worse injuries, just a lot of bruises upon bruises.

The sound of approaching footsteps brought Sherlock’s attention back to his surroundings.

“Nurse Peters!” someone called, and the steps stopped just outside his room. “Could you look after the patient across the hall next please,” continued the voice (male – in his thirties – slightly out of breath – came running – purposeful steps and bearing – was used to having his orders followed).

“The former soldier? Sure doctor,” a woman answered (quite young – slim – light steps – fairly new to her job judging by the hero-worship colouring her voice that still showed much of the belief that doctors could make almost everything right; although it could just be infatuation). “Such a sad story, isn’t it? Is it true that he probably won’t survive the next 24 hours? That poor man, to survive the Middle East only to now be dying back home.”

“It is. He was in an explosion. The trauma to his brain was extensive and he’s been in a coma ever since. It’s unlikely he’ll wake up before the end.” The doctor hesitated. “But still that shouldn’t mean he has to die alone.”

“Quite right so, Dr. Miller.” (Definitely infatuation.)

“His condition has been deteriorating steadily over the last day; it probably won’t be long now ...”

Sherlock’s rediscovered heart clenched painfully; there was something important he had to remember. What had happened? His eyes flew open as he tried to force his mind to cooperate and to break through the block in his memories. He –

 _The pool ... his surprise at seeing John ... Moriarty ... deciding to go out with a bang ... looking at John for understanding ... pulling the trigger ... feeling the impact of a bullet in his shoulder at the same time as the shockwave from the explosion hit and propelled him into the pool ... floating in the water ... feeling increasingly numb ... someone dragging him to the surface just before everything went black._

 _John._

 _The dying soldier across the hallway._

 _John!_

Sherlock was almost overwhelmed by the sudden surge of rage that tore through him. Since meeting John he was getting more and more acquainted with emotions beside excitement at interesting cases or periods of boredom, but nothing had prepared him for that strong a feeling.

This couldn’t be happening; John wasn’t even supposed to be there.

 _Moriarty!_

Before he was even aware that he had made a conscious decision, his hand was already reaching for the nearest monitor and he switched it off. After everything had been shut down, Sherlock rid himself of the IV line in his left hand, ignoring the small trail of blood left behind.

Getting out of bed proved to be a bit more challenging.

Sitting up and swinging his leg over the edge of the bed woke the pain from his injuries that, until now, had been dulled through medication. Sherlock allowed himself a second to suck in a breath before he started to push the pain to the back of his mind and stood up carefully. Only a quick grip to the bedside table kept him from planting his face on the floor.

As the room stopped spinning around him, Sherlock’s gaze fell on the stack of newspapers lying on the table. His eyes immediately zeroed in on the headline and the accompanying article.

 _3 MORE BODIES FOUND in rubble of exploded building – death toll in latest bombing now at 5 – two victims still critical in hospital – Scotland Yard still searching for suspect behind the recent series of bombings, despite having proof he had been there during the explosion – the police reached the building only minutes later and had the whole area cordoned off immediately, but ..._

It took Sherlock only a moment to get all the relevant information from the article. Moriarty was still alive. That was unacceptable. Sherlock was sure, as prepared as the self-acclaimed criminal mastermind had been, he couldn’t have escaped the explosion unscathed. He had stood even nearer to the bomb vest than Sherlock. And if he were still somewhere in London licking his wounds, the world’s only consulting detective would find him. If Moriarty had already left London, Sherlock swore, he wouldn’t stop until he’d found him and avenged John.

The thought gave Sherlock an energy boost. He turned around and took in the small room in search for something to wear instead of his flimsy hospital gown. The draft of cold air across his backside was quite distracting. Luck was with him; over the chair he spotted in one corner of the room hung his trusted coat. He had left it outside the poolroom; someone must have found the coat, cleaned it and brought it here. At first glance the coat seemed to have survived the explosion remarkably intact.

Sherlock went over carefully, testing every step until he was sure he wouldn’t keel over, getting surer and surer. He finally reached the chair and put on the coat, whilst ignoring the way the movements pulled on the stitches in his shoulders and on his injured ribs. Knowing what to expect, he found it much easier this time to just ignore the pain.

After this, going to the door and stepping into the now empty hallway was easy. Sherlock hesitated for a moment before he went left, looking intently through the windows in the doors. He found what he was searching for three rooms down across the hall.

Through the glass Sherlock had a good view of John lying in his hospital bed. John was unnaturally pale and had a heavy, stark white bandage around his head. He was surrounded by machines and monitors.

Sherlock stood frozen with his hand halfway raised to the doorknob. He couldn’t do it, go in there and say goodbye. That wasn’t him. And it wasn’t as if John would be even aware of his presence. Instead Sherlock balled his hand into a fist and let it fall down to his side. With one last look at John, he turned around and went in the direction of the exit.

The only stop on his way out was a detour to one of the changing rooms for hospital personnel, where he acquired a set of scrubs and a pair of slippers. He would have preferred real shoes, but this was still better than running around in his bare feet. And he had already spent too much time here; someone was bound to discover his absence sooner or later. Probably the only reason he hadn’t already been found out, was because of the blaring alarms from some medical equipment coming from the other end of the hall.

After picking a couple of lockers to get some money he finally left and found himself a taxi. By the time he reached 221B Baker Street the pain medication had worn off completely. Sherlock had to suppress a hiss of pain as he left the taxi and forced himself over the threshold.

Everything went quiet as the door shut close behind him, keeping the noises of the rest of the world outside. He took a moment to collect his strength then got up the stairs. The windows in the flat were now repaired but the rest looked exactly like he and John had left it that fateful evening. Experiments in various states of completion alternated with books and papers, the occasional dish and various clothes - and in between was rubble from that first explosion, with which everything had started. Most of the stuff belonged to Sherlock, but traces of John were everywhere: the armchair he was always sitting in, his mail nearby, his favourite mug on the table, the cane collecting dust in the corner and even one of his jumpers hanging over the back of a chair.

Sherlock went straight to his bedroom to prepare for his next step. He shrugged off his coat and left it on the bed before he opened his wardrobe and searched for the things he would need. Then he took everything with him to the bathroom.

After he had pulled off the borrowed scrubs Sherlock studied his bandages. The wrappings around his ribs really helped his breathing and supported his injured bones, but the bandage around his shoulder was seriously restraining his movements. The gunshot wound was already several days old and the skin around it should have had enough time to start healing, so he decided a simple dressing should be more than enough. He got rid of the bandage. A quick check in the mirror showed stitches surrounded by still slightly raw looking skin, but the flexing of his shoulder muscles produced no more than a mildly irritating pull. However putting on a dressing over the stitches proved to be much more taxing as every time he tried to twist himself to reach over his shoulder his ribs protested painfully. After he had to interrupt the third try because it hurt too much, he stopped. It would have to work without. Instead he put on the clothes he’d brought.

They were from a rather dubious quality, not really dirty but quite threadbare and littered with holes. Trousers, a t-shirt, a dark jumper and a longish jacket. With a few stokes through his hair, which looked dulled after the days in the hospital, he made it even more unruly than usually. Some strategically placed dirt made his face look gaunt, especially with the dark circles already under his eyes. The pair of sturdy shoes was supposed to finish his outfit, but almost did him in. His broken ribs again. This was one of the times where his superior mind couldn’t overcome the demands of his physical body and the sudden pain drove him to his knees. More or less on the ground already he sat down and tried again after a few moments, getting the shoes on at last. With iron will Sherlock gripped the sink hard and pulled himself up, panting hard until he was finally upright again.

Sherlock took one last scrutinizing look at his image in the mirror to check his disguise. Mrs. Hudson would surely be horrified at the mess he’d made of himself, but fortunately she didn’t seem to be at home. He should hurry before his landlady came back – or worse, one of Mycroft’s minions came by in the search for him.

Still breathing harshly, he went back to the living room. Here Sherlock stopped for a moment to think through the pain and to consider what else he would need. He’d already hidden enough money within his clothes to buy a small country. His laptop wouldn’t fit in his pockets and would also be too conspicuous for where he was going. He could have used his trusty phone, but that most likely hadn’t survived the dunk in the pool. What he would need was something for the moment he finally faced Moriarty.

His trust in his instincts let him climb up the second stair to John’s room. It was rewarded as he went through the drawers and found a wrapped bundle containing John’s gun. Same as with the coat in his hospital room, someone – _Mycroft!_ – must have discovered the handgun after the explosion and brought it back to 221B Baker Street. Knowing the automatic had been most likely found in the pool, Sherlock examined its condition first. He removed the clip and checked the slide. The gun had not only been cleaned and oiled but the clip had also been replaced with a new, fully loaded one. Satisfied Sherlock stuffed the gun in the pocket of his jacket. A further quick search didn’t reveal any additional ammunition.

Now ready, he went down again, hesitating just a second at the door to their living room.

All in all, Sherlock hadn’t needed more than fifteen minutes to finish his preparations. He didn’t stop to take one last look at the flat he and John had made a home of these last months, regardless of the high probability that he wouldn’t survive a final confrontation with Moriarty. It wasn’t as if he needed to anyway, having memorized every detail long ago. But if his gaze lasted longer than strictly necessary on John’s jumper, there was no one here to call him on it.

Sherlock got carefully down the steps and went outside. He closed the door resolutely behind himself and vanished into the streets of London.

* * *

John woke to the beeping of machines. Unfortunately that wasn’t something new to him, so his mind told him, despite the raging headache, he found himself in a hospital as a patient once again. The smell of antiseptic and the more or less numb feeling in the rest of his body, that told him he was on heavy-duty painkillers, spoke of the same.

Just the sounds of someone pottering around in his room didn’t seem to really fit into the picture – they weren’t purposeful enough to belong to a nurse. It took a moment before the quiet voice of Mrs. Hudson finally registered in John’s mind and even longer before he could understand actual words.

“… tut-tut … such bleak rooms. I wonder how someone is supposed to get better in such cold surroundings. See, some flowers on a little lace doily and everything already looks so much better. I’ll go to Sherlock next and decorate his room too, not that he puts any value to things like that. Did I tell you he showed clear signs of waking up and even opened his eyes for a bit this morning? Nobody was there beside some nurse. But they said he was still so out of it he probably won’t remember it. Such a sad thing to wake up all alone. I’m sure that brother of his will be back soon. He spent quite some time at Sherlock’s bedside and …”

The calm inflexion of Mrs. Hudson’s voice was soothing, and John felt himself drifting back toward sleep. He was almost under again before his mind had the words completely processed. It was the thought of Sherlock that started the sudden onslaught of memories.

 _The kidnapping ... being strapped to a bomb ... Sherlock’s face as he first laid eyes on John beside the pool ... Moriarty ... Sherlock again, their silent communication shortly before the shot rang out ... the explosion ... and heat, so much heat ... following Sherlock into the pool ... dragging him out of the water ... the falling debris all around them ... trying to protect Sherlock with his body ... and then the moment as everything dissolved into blackness ..._

“Sherlock?” croaked John scarcely audible, still trying to make sense of the pictures in his head. But it must have been loud enough to stop Mrs. Hudson in her monologue.

“John, dear, are you awake?”

With great effort forced John his eyes to open. He blinked a few times until the face above him sharpened into the anxious but familiar features of his landlady. He started to speak again just to be immediately interrupted.

“Easy dear,” she said with a relieved smile. “You have a bad concussion - that’s why you spent the last four days unconscious. You had us quite worried, even with the doctors saying everything should be just fine with time and that you would wake up as soon as you were ready.”

John had problems following the excited torrent of words, so he tried to concentrate on the most important thing: “Sherlock?” he asked again.

“Shush … don’t fret, he’s just down the hall catching up on all that sleep he missed before … before the … incident.”

Her voice broke and John could see a mixture of worry, helplessness and maybe even a bit of anger flitter across Mrs. Hudson’s face before it again was replaced by a smile that was now tinged with sadness.

“Here I am all talking and talking, when I should go and find some nurse or doctor to tell the good news that you’ve woken up.” In seconds, before John could even think about asking for more details, Mrs. Hudson had reached the door, opened it and started to shout for someone of the hospital staff to show up.

Afterward there was a flutter of activity. First this test ( _“What’s your name?” – “Which date is it?” – “Who’s Prime minister?” – “How much do you remember about what happened?”_ ), then that test ( _getting a light shone into his eyes – what a joy with a concussion_ ) and then even more tests. In between the doctor stressed repeatedly how lucky he was to be alive and especially to have survived with fairly few injuries, namely a sprained ankle, a sprained wrist and a couple of cracked ribs beside the concussion and numerous bruises and contusions. If the police and the rescue forces hadn’t been there so fast ...

In the end it was quite some time before John could ask about Sherlock again – and by then it was too late.

John got the first clue that something was wrong when nobody answered his questions. Mrs. Hudson never came back, so he had to ask the doctor and nurses, but everything he got in return were evasions. There was already a growing lump of ice-cold dread in his belly as Mycroft came through the door to his room. It exploded into something much more unpleasant the moment John saw his face. Not that it showed that strong an expression, but over the last months he had gotten a lot of experience in reading both Holmeses and for Mycroft to show even that much it was the equivalent of a freak out.

“Sherlock?” asked John, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Mycroft didn’t speak straightaway. He stopped in the doorway, clutching his ever-present umbrella, with his gaze seemingly transfixed on the flowers on the table beside John’s bed. A muscle in his face twitched repeatedly and the hair on the right side of his head was out of place, as if he’d agitatedly stroked his hand through. It was the most out of control John had ever seen Sherlock’s brother. Normally nothing seemed to be able to faze the man.

“My brother,” Mycroft finally said, “has vanished.”

John exploded. “What? Why? How is that even possible? I thought he was supposed to be in his own hospital bed. Oh god ... Moriarty. I forgot to ask, did he survive too? Is he behind this?”

“Unfortunately we have to assume that that ... individual is still alive. None of the bodies discovered in the rubble of the pool building were his.” The twitching of the facial muscle was getting more pronounced. “But no, there were no signs that anybody forced Sherlock from the room. He seemed to have just walked out.”

“Where were your people?” John couldn’t keep the accusation out of his voice completely. “Don’t try to deny it; I’m sure you’ve had someone here. And where the fuck were you?”

Mycroft stared at John, but the former soldier refused to let himself be cowed. “After I spent most of last days here at the hospital there were a few things I just couldn’t ignore any longer. As for the man who was supposed to keep an eye on you two, let’s just say he will be transferred to a more appropriate position.”

The tone of Mycroft’s voice promised something nasty for the man, but John couldn’t find it in himself to care. Instead he tried to sit up whilst pulling his blanket away.

“Doctor Watson, would you care to explain what you think you are doing?” Mycroft left his place at the door and came to the bed. He pushed John back with ridiculous ease. “You are in no shape to get out of bed.”

John yielded physically for the moment, but didn’t give up verbally. “I have to find Sherlock.”

“I hope, John, you are aware that you don’t have to follow my brother everywhere.”

“Someone has to!”

“Yes,” said Mycroft with unmistakable fondness in his eyes as he studied John. “Nevertheless you don’t have to replicate all his follies, like running around half dead.”

“But …”

“Be assured,” interrupted Mycroft, “my people are looking for Sherlock. They will call as soon as there is something to report. In fact I just got word from the unit at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock already had been there. According to the things missing in his wardrobe he left in his homeless outfit – and with your gun.”

John looked incredulous. “You know what’s in your brother’s wardrobe? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know ... Wait, my gun? How?”

“I had it overhauled and put in your room after I had it liberated from Scotland Yard. They found it in the ruins of the pool. And we couldn’t just allow them to make a ballistic comparison, could we?”

“Err, no, better not,” agreed John, thinking of the cabbie. He fidgeted with his blanket. “So, what do we do now?”

Mycroft sat down on the chair beside the bed, hanging the umbrella over the back. “Now ... now we wait, Dr. Watson.”

* * *

If Sherlock wanted to blend in somewhere, it wasn’t enough to simply disguise himself, he also had to hold himself like the people that surrounded him, walk and talk like them and pay attention to a thousand other details. Sherlock always had found it easy to put on a mask and, if he really set his mind to it, become almost everything he wanted to be.

It took him no time at all to melt in with the homeless people of London. Single-mindedly, Sherlock made contact with his network and set them to work. It had taken him years, during which he had a lot of practice moving in this scene, to create the homeless network and to make it into the well-functioning organisation it was today. They were his eyes and ears all over London and had proved useful many times in getting him just the right information that he needed for countless cases. And today he used every single one of them for one goal: to find James Moriarty. They searched all over the city for clues and leads, always with Sherlock in the midst of it all. He was everywhere at once – or at least tried to be – not stopping for even a moment.

In the end Sherlock’s assumption that Moriarty couldn’t have survived the explosion unscathed proved to be correct. Sherlock knew he had found him the moment he heard the rumours that a doctor, who was well known on the street for his little illegal clinic, was suddenly nowhere to be found, and people who went to him for his services over the last few days had just vanished.

And not a moment too late. Even with all the adrenaline flowing through his system, Sherlock could feel himself getting weaker and the pain harder to ignore. Angry and annoyed at the distraction his failing body posed, he tried to push everything at the back of his mind again, aware that his time was running out.

Sherlock would have gone alone to Moriarty’s hideout if he didn’t know that the criminal would have organized some kind of security cordon around himself. The detective would need help with what he was planning to do next. The idea was simple enough: distract all possible henchmen to give Sherlock the time he needed to sneak into the house and find Moriarty. Conscious of the danger, Sherlock asked for volunteers only, and stressed repeatedly that nobody should take unnecessary risks.

Their target was a fairly secluded building in one of the nicer neighbourhoods. It was middle sized and three storeys high. Word was that the ground floor held an official and totally legal surgery, while the third floor contained the doctors living quarters. It was the second floor they were interested in. Official records said the flats there were to let, but in truth nobody resided there for very long. Instead criminals that needed a doctor, emergency services or long-term treatment, could come and stay for the duration of their medical care.

It was early morning, still completely dark, as they arrived. Sherlock studied the house for long minutes until he was sure no obvious movements could be seen. Hopefully most of the people inside were asleep – or at least tired after a night of sentry duty.

Finally he nodded to his helpers and started to move across the front lawn to the main entrance. According to the plan he had ten minutes before the others would ignite a controlled explosion to start a small, much smoking fire in the hallway. So he wasted no time carefully picking the door and sneaking into the house. Inside Sherlock waited and listened carefully but everything stayed quiet before he moved to the stairs. He placed his feet cautiously on every step but couldn’t prevent the old wood from creaking. Luck was still with him and he reached the landing to the second floor undetected, instantly searching for the obligatory small supply room that should be right there in this type of building.

Sherlock had about two minutes left after he was finally hidden. He used the time to pull the gun out of the jacket and to check once again its readiness. It wouldn’t be long now, so he waited, listening intently for the signal. The reactions inside the house to the explosion were instant - shouting, thudding doors and running footsteps. Under the door to the supply room, a small strip of light became visible.

It didn’t take long before all the noise seemed to come from downstairs, and Sherlock deemed it save to come out. He opened the door slowly, ready to react, but nobody was there. Now that it was lit, he had a much better view of the hallway, which stretched in both directions through the length of the house.

As most people seemed to have come from the left on their way to the stair, Sherlock decided to begin in that direction. He could see four doors, two on each side. The first door was locked, but as he tried the one across the hall it opened smoothly. Behind laid a small hall with even more doors. A quick search proved the flat to be empty.

Sherlock went back and to the end of the hallway, where two more doors were, one of them already halfway open. He tried that one first. Unfortunately luck had run out and as he gave the door a gentle push it revealed a big, brutish man standing behind. Sherlock recovered first, but was considerably slowed by his injuries. Not wanting to alert the people downstairs, he decided against just shooting the man and used the gun as a club. He got one blow in while the man was still looking surprised. However he didn’t seem impressed by it. The man had raised his arm in time to deflect the blow, while Sherlock had to suppress a grunt of pain at the sudden movement. He could feel a couple of the stitches in his shoulder wound pop. Then the man was at him, grasped his jacket and hurled him through the room. The impact with the wall drove the breath from Sherlock’s lungs. Before he could recover he was grabbed and flung again, this time through an open door into an adjoining room. He lost his grip on the gun and heard it clatter over the ground. Sherlock desperately tried to ignore the pain and to get back on his feet. The man stood in the doorway and watched with amusement Sherlock’s feeble attempts to scramble away, then he came in and kicked Sherlock in the ribs.

Sherlock whimpered and curled into a ball reflexively, trying to protect his now definitely broken ribs. His gaze fell on the gun lying in the corner of the room, a plan forming in his mind. He knew he had to get up or everything would be over long before he got the chance to confront Moriarty. As the next kick came, Sherlock rolled with the motion in the direction of the corner and got on his knees. Biting his lips he quickly grabbed the gun and forced his body up. The man took the opportunity and grasped Sherlock’s jacket again. But this time Sherlock was prepared. He had the gun ready in his hand and, as the brute dragged him close, rammed the butt into the man’s temple as soon as he was near enough. The angle wasn’t great but his aim true and put the big man out cold, dragging Sherlock with him to the ground.

It took Sherlock a few minutes to gather enough strength to roll the body away. He was breathing hard as he finally struggled upright again. Sherlock paused a moment to control his breathing - there was now a strange tickling feeling in his chest - and to calm his racing heart. Then without another look he left the room. He would need to check the rest of the flat too. Remembering the layout of the other flat, he knew the living room had to be at the end of the small hall and decided to try there next.

Weary, Sherlock stood still for a few seconds to listen for any sound in the room behind, but heard nothing – just the noise of panicking people and a couple of shots from the direction of the stairs. He finally opened the door carefully, half expecting what he found behind, the gun ready in his hand.

The room was packed with furniture; cupboards, a sofa, a table, a couple of armchairs, a big multimedia centre, mute but showing the news. Propped up on the sofa, almost big enough to be a bed, sat Moriarty grinning and pointing a gun at the consulting detective.

“Ah, Sherlock, so nice of you to visit me,” crooned the consulting criminal. “Although, this new tattered looked doesn’t really suit you. It’s really not classy enough.”

“And here I was, thinking you liked me because of my mind,” Sherlock shot back. “But I must say I like your new look, especially that cast on your leg. Makes running not exactly easy, does it?”

“Yeah, such a pity! Do you want to sign it?”

“Not really.” Sherlock felt the blood from his torn stitches saturate the clothes on his back. “You should hire better henchmen; your security personnel is appalling.”

Moriarty gesticulated animatedly with his free hand. “I know! But what can I do? Someone blew up most of my more capable helpers.” He paused and studied Sherlock calculatingly. “And where is _your_ trusted sidekick?”

The detective pressed his lip into a thin line and Moriarty’s eyes lighted up.

“Oh ... poor Sherlock! Did he die? Painfully? I really had planned to be the one to burn the heart out of you and it would have been quite sophisticated if I may say so. But look at you; you seem to have done a great job of that all by yourself when you shot the bomb.” Giggling echoed through the room.

“Enough!” Sherlock tightened his grip around the gun and willed the minute tremble in his hand to stop. He could feel cold sweat break out on his forehead.

“Or what? You will shoot? I don’t think so! Life would be way to boring for you without _me_.”

Sherlock couldn’t understand why he hadn’t already pulled the trigger. It would not only be the morally right thing to do, ridding the world of a great evil – not that he put too much value in notions like the rigid structure of modern morality - it was also all he had been able to think about these last hours, everything he strived for. But still ...

The only thing he was sure about was he wasn’t hesitating because he would be bored without Moriarty. The truth was, Sherlock had not once thought about the future and what it would – could - hold for him.

So it should be easy to shoot, especially as Moriarty was armed (another avoided moral hurdle). John had killed the cabbie to save Sherlock’s life, so why couldn’t he kill an even worse man?

 _John ..._

Another surge of rage drove through him, but was suddenly interrupted as the tickling feeling in his chest caused a coughing fit that rattled his body. Only with great effort did Sherlock succeed in holding in a cry of pain as he felt his broken ribs shift. As he took his left hand from his mouth he could see tiny blood spatters on it. Time had run out.

“Uh-oh, you don’t look so good, my dear. You should have stayed in bed.”

Sherlock ignored Moriarty’s words. Instead he steeled himself. “This ends now,” he stated calmly. Watching the criminal, he could see the exact moment the man realized Sherlock had decided to pull the trigger. There was indeed something like surprise on Moriarty’s face.

The shot rang incredibly loud in the small room.

Between Moriarty’s eyes suddenly appeared a hole, and the criminal slumped down. It was over.

Sherlock dropped the hand with the gun. He felt nothing, just stood there staring at his dead nemesis.

It took a while for him to notice that something was wrong. Looking down his body he saw the reason why the shot had been so loud. It had been two shots at the same time. There was a hole in his belly. He could see the seeping blood staining his shirt around the entrance wound. The word came to him: gut-shot.

 _Oh ..._

He was already falling as two of Moriarty’s surviving henchmen broke through the door. Everything went black before he had reached the floor.

* * *

A few hours after he came into John’s room, Mycroft still sat beside his bed and kept the doctor from doing something rash and stupid, both getting increasingly frustrated with having to wait.

John fiddled for the umpteenth time with his blanket, trying to find a more comfortable position in the bed. His eyes roamed restlessly around the bleak room, whilst he pretended to ignore the other Holmes. But he couldn’t help but notice the usually stoic and impenetrable facade that seemed to be Mycroft’s default countenance had started cracking, judging by the flickering eyes and the accelerated fidgeting.

Their last argument had been fierce before it ended in a kind of stalemate.

 _“You have to let me get out there, Mycroft! I can help searching for Sherlock.” John had almost shouted._

 _“No.”_

 _“Why not? Don’t think I can’t see how much you too want to go after him. It’s Sherlock for God’s sake! Who knows what crazy ideas that big mind of his is concocting just now?”_

 _“I can’t.” Mycroft had the decency to at least look slightly apologetic._

 _“We both know he’s after Moriarty, even though that stupid idiot is already half dead. Please,” John more or less begged._

 _“I’m sorry, but I really can’t. If anything happens to you, Sherlock would be very ... displeased with me.”_

That had been almost an hour ago. Since then neither of them had said anything, the only sounds in the room coming from the monitor beside the bed and the faint noises coming through the open door. They were both pulled out of their silence by a sudden racket from the hallway.

“Sir!” Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea or whatever she was calling herself today, John had been too weary and in too much pain to ask, stuck her head through the doorway.

Mycroft stood up and went out of the room, ostensively to find out what was happening, but John would be damned if he let himself be left behind. Carefully, though as fast as his injured body allowed, John swung his legs over the edge and got up. His already raging headache went up another few notches, but as soon as the room stopped spinning around him, John pushed his body ruthlessly forward, ignoring his hurting ankle. He took step after step until he’d reached the door and was through. Clutching the frame to keep himself upright, John watched the events at the end of the hall.

Sherlock’s brother had just reached a group of four people that seemed to consist of two nurses and a security guard, who tried to restrain a young man, dressed in an odd collection of clothes that couldn’t exactly be called clean or new.

“Could someone be so kind to explain, why you think it is a good idea to make such an uproar in a hospital?” Mycroft raised his voice not once, but his words rang through the whole hallway.

“That’s exactly why we’re trying to get this punk out of here,” said one of the nurses. “We were just telling him that this is a place with seriously ill people and that he has no business being here.”

“But I have a good reason to be here,” interjected the half-starved looking boy. “It’s important.”

“Really.” The distain in the voice of the other nurse couldn’t be missed.

“Yes! It’s life or death! Mr. Holmes sent me to speak with Mr. Holmes.”

“Are you trying to be funny, kid?” The security guard shook the young man. “I think you’re just on the search for drugs.”

“Stop!” Mycroft’s voice left no room for contradiction. “Leave him be! I’m Mycroft Holmes; I want to hear what he has to say.” He turned to the boy. “Speak!”

“Oh, you’re his brother. Great! You see I have this note from Mr. Holmes. Actually I was supposed to only give it to you if he hadn’t returned by morning. But I didn’t think that would have been a good idea, to wait so long. ‘Cause you know, Mr. Holmes seemed crazy, I mean, more crazy than usual. Whatever he has planned, I’m afraid, he doesn’t really expect to survive it. I can bring you there, but we should really go now ...”

The tempo the boy was speaking in made it difficult for John to follow the jumbled words. Mycroft didn’t seem fazed; he just reached out his hand and took the folded paper the young man had produced from one of his pockets.

John couldn’t see Mycroft’s face from his position at the door, but the tensing of his shoulders as he read his brother’s message was easily detectable. Mycroft didn’t say another word. He nodded to the boy then turned around and went to John. The expression on his face sent dread through the doctor’s stomach.

“I have to go,” said Mycroft in a voice that just sounded dead.

John numbly took the offered note and watched Mycroft leave, his assistant and the boy in tow. After they had left his field of view he opened the folded paper with trembling hands and read the words, written in Sherlock’s distinct script.

 _Mycroft,_

 _ ~~If you’re reading this I’m~~ No, too clichéd._

 _I’m sorry; I didn’t plan to just get myself killed - but I also didn’t do much to prevent it.  
If I could still ask for one favour, bury me next to John. Please._

 _Thank you,  
SH_

 _PS: Take care of Mrs. Hudson._

* * *

His little brother had outdone himself this time.

Not once in all the years of Sherlock’s time as consulting detective or even in the years during his drug addiction had he ever done something as stupid as hunting injured and alone after a dangerous criminal, one who had a whole organization behind him. And he had done a fair share of stupid things – at least in Mycroft’s eyes.

Normally it was easy for him to sit back and wait for others to do follow his instructions, but waiting with John Watson had been hard, especially keeping calm outwardly while doing it. For the first time in many years Mycroft had been tempted to participate in the legwork, to actively search for Sherlock. But in the end he had to be honest with himself and acknowledge that his people were better equipped to go out there. All he could do was keep oversight and coordinate the effort.

Mycroft balled his hands desperately into fists, wishing the car would go faster.

The note had rattled Mycroft. Granted he now knew more about Sherlock’s reasoning - that he somehow believed John had died. But that his brother seemed compelled to hunt down Moriarty because of the good doctor surprised Mycroft. He was aware of Sherlock’s potential (the good and the bad) and that he was far less aloof as Sherlock liked to make everyone believe. And yet, even Mycroft hadn’t known how far Sherlock had come since meeting the man. Doctor Watson proved to be a blessing and a curse all at once.

At least know Mycroft knew where to go. If only they would get there already – and most of all on time.

As if on cue the car slowed down. Mycroft opened the door and got out as soon as they’d stopped. Seconds later the leader of the special forces he had ordered to the address was standing in front of Mycroft and giving his report.

“Sir,” the man clothed completely in black said. “As we arrived there was already some kind of fight afoot. Now and then a shoot rang out, but mostly there was a lot of running and shouting. A group outside the house seemed to have clubbed everyone that came through the door. As ordered, we rounded everyone up. Most of the people outside the building gave up easily; we kept them over there. But inside we met a lot of resistance and had to fight our way through.”

“Did you find my brother?” Mycroft walked towards the entrance where more soldiers stood. In the distance the sound of approaching sirens could be heard.

“Not yet, sir. But ... Sir? Sir! You can’t go in there. The building isn’t secured yet.” The man had to hurry to keep up.

“Then I suggest you’d better come with me.”

From the house came the sound of gunshots Mycroft walked on unperturbed. No one tried to stop him again, but he collected two more shadows as he entered the building.

Normally in daylight this was a nice neighbourhood, clean and well cared for. But as Mycroft crossed the threshold he stepped into chaos. Someone had laid a fire in the hallway, smoke still lying heavily in the air, and there were bullet holes everywhere, together with the occasional blood splatter. There was even a body at the foot of the stairs. Mycroft ignored it as he climbed up the steps. Upstairs were more of his men. He demanded an update.

“There’s just that one last flat at the end of the hall left. Everything else is secured, sir.”

“Bring me there!”

“Sir, we saw someone go in there ...”

“Now!”

They followed the order without further hesitation. Mycroft didn’t care what must have been in his voice and face to make them obey so swiftly. Instead he concentrated on what lay ahead.

Just as the group started to move a shot rang out from the direction of the flat and everyone quickened his step. Mycroft moved forward immediately into the empty room behind the open door. A feeling of urgency made him hasten onwards. Four doors led from the room; two were closed, one showed into a wrecked room, with a body lying there and the last door ajar. He went there without hesitation and pushed it completely open to look into some kind of living room.

It took Mycroft just a few seconds to take the room in. A man was leaning over an obviously dead body, judging by the staring eyes and the third ‘eye’ in his forehead, that lay on the sofa which dominated the room. Another man stood beside a crumpled body and was prodding it with his foot. Both of them looked up as Mycroft entered and scrambled for their guns. Before they could even raise their hands, two shots rang out from behind Mycroft.

The bodies hadn’t reached the floor yet as he rushed to the crumpled man whose profile and unruly hair marked him unmistakably as Sherlock. With unwonted tenderness Mycroft knelt down and carefully straightened his brother’s body. He let out a dismayed sound as he found blood, frantically searching for the source. Seeing the bullet hole Mycroft didn’t hesitate to apply pressure.

“I need a medic here!” he shouted at his men. “Now!” he bellowed, immediately returning his attention to his brother.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called. “Sherlock!”

But no reaction came, not even a moan in response to the surely painful pressure on his gunshot wound. Mycroft could only watch helplessly as his brother’s blood started to stain his hands. It felt utterly wrong to see Sherlock, who was usually so energetic, lying so still and lifeless as if ... No! No, he would refuse to give up on him.

Second added to second that turned into minutes until finally running footsteps announced the arrival of the medics.

“Sir?” one of them tried to get his attention. “Sir! We need you to move so we have enough room to work.”

Reluctantly Mycroft left his place at Sherlock’s side, not ready to severe the connection he felt touching his brother, as if he could keep him here with the contact. Finally he took a few steps back. Again he had to leave Sherlock in the hands of others and could only watch from the outside. He wasn’t used to this feeling of desperation, to this overwhelming feeling of fear and present affection for his brother. Mycroft’s gaze never left Sherlock’s face, silently willing him to hold on.

The two medics acted fast but with sure and controlled movements. They got vitals, inserted an IV, checked the obvious injuries and searched for hidden ones before they packed the bleeding wounds temporarily. And although Mycroft heard on of them say she could hear diminished breath sounds in one lung, they declared Sherlock momentarily stable enough to move him outside to the waiting ambulance.

Mycroft watched on as his brother was carefully placed on a stretcher. With the help of some of the soldiers they carried him quickly and in one piece down the stairs and out of the house. Never one to be left behind, Mycroft followed right after them and climbed into the ambulance without waiting for approval. Nobody objected.

After they closed the doors and the ambulance started to move, the medics returned their full attention to Sherlock. They put in a second line to help with the blood loss, attached wires and monitors and watched his breathing intensely for further deterioration. Still about five minutes away from the hospital, they finally had no other choice but to intubate him.

Mycroft watched the procedure from his corner, stoic and outwardly calm. Only the tightly clenched fists spoke of his inner turmoil.

That was the moment Sherlock’s heart decided to stop.

* * *

Mycroft stared at his hands. They were clean once again and had been so for hours. But he could still see the brilliant red of his brother’s blood on the pale flesh. How it had completely coated his fingers, like creepy gloves. And the drops that had left dark trails over the back of his hands.

He couldn’t get the pictures out of his head.

Not that he tried very hard. These images were still by far better than the memories of those awful minutes as Sherlock’s heart had stopped. The medics had been working frantically to get it beating again, shocking Sherlock once, twice and even a third time with the defibrillator, making his lifeless body arch. It couldn’t have been more than one or two minutes until they got him back, but as Mycroft watched on helplessly it had felt like eternity. It had been his worst nightmare come true - that he had been too late in his relentless efforts to keep his brother safe.

A minute later they’d finally reached the hospital. Sherlock had been whisked through the doors of the emergency entrance and straight to surgery. Mycroft had been left behind. Not even his government position got him more than directions to the waiting room and an ‘it may be some time’.

And so he sat there hour upon hour, a lonely island in an ever changing sea. Around him people were coming and going; some got good news, some got bad news, but none captured his interest long enough to care.

On the chair beside Mycroft stood a long forgotten cup that his assistant had brought him. He couldn’t even remember if it was tea or coffee. Instead what he clearly remembered was the look of pity in her eyes as she tried to hand him the cup. It had tempted him to throw a tantrum worthy of his brother and to hurl the plastic cup across the room. But he was Mycroft Holmes, always calm and collected; nothing could faze him. So he had confined himself to only a dark look in her direction. A very dark look. It had been enough to make her flee the room.

He had been alone ever since.

The hands of the clock on the wall were slowly crawling forward.

* * *

For hours John had been watching the occupant of the other bed, studying the gentle rise and fall of his chest in rhythm to the hiss of the ventilator and searching in his pale face for any signs of awareness or even distress. An activity that was daunting and reassuring at once.

Reassuring because Sherlock was here, where he could see him – and still alive. The wait between the moment Mycroft had left the hospital and the instant a couple of nurses had wheeled Sherlock’s bed into his room had been one of the longest and worst John ever had to withstand. Nobody had told him anything. All he had been able to do was sit in his room the whole time, staring at Mycroft’s forgotten umbrella and chafing at having to stay behind.

The sheer amount of medical equipment that surrounded Sherlock’s bed was daunting, dwarfing the usually tall form in a frightening way. In a purely rational way John knew all the machines, wires and tubes were only there to help Sherlock heal, especially as he knew exactly what each piece was supposed to do. But it was always different if you knew personally the patient, who was being kept alive by those machines. And especially after John had looked through the chart hanging at Sherlock’s bed and seen the list of injuries ...

So he talked to Sherlock.

About everything and nothing, but mostly about the people that visited.

“Mrs. Hudson has just been here and she has brought you something, again,” John told Sherlock with a chuckle. “Knitted socks this time. Because, she said, you looked to be freezing last time. She has been here quite often, about twice a day, I would say. And every time she had something for us. I swear, if we stay here much longer, she’ll have brought over half of our things from Baker Street ...

“I think we should apologize to Lestrade, not that I believe you do things like that,” he said another time. “But the Detective Inspector always looks stressed when he visits, and I could have sworn he has a lot more grey hairs now. He said it’s our fault he has so much to do because of the messes we’ve made. Although I’m sure he’s mostly just concerned about us ... you.

“And you won’t believe who else has been here. Anderson and Donovan! They disguised it as a social visit to me, but I’m sure I saw them giving you worried looks ...

“Mycroft hasn’t been here since the doctors told us that you would survive and that you were finally on your way to recovery. You’ve rattled what I thought was an unshakeable foundation. What he witnessed ... If he hadn’t found you so fast ...” John’s voice broke.

“I was sleeping last night as Molly sneaked in. It was her sobbing that woke me up. She blames herself at least partly for what happened ...

“You know, I blame myself too. You call yourself a sociopath and yet you care enough to hunt down Moriarty because you thought me dead. That’s maybe not the most socially acceptable reaction, but definitely human ...”

The first couple of days had been hard. Sherlock’s body had been through a lot even before the explosion, and it had come back to haunt them now. It had been touch and go for a long time, and he almost hadn’t made it through surgery since he had nearly no reserves left to fight. In the end it was only Sherlock’s proverbial stubbornness that had kept him alive.

But he would live. And the doctor was so satisfied with Sherlock’s progress that if everything went well they would start to wean him off the ventilator later that day.

If Sherlock would only wake up.

* * *

Sherlock woke to the feeling of déjà vu.

Beeping. Antiseptic smell. _Hospital?_

He could have sworn he had memories of already having left the hospital. So why was he still here? Granted he felt really bad, his body hurting all over, a lot more than he remembered. But had he had a relapse, or had enough time passed for this to be completely unrelated?

Sherlock was still trying to make sense of his jumbled memories when he became aware of a familiar sound. Someone speaking. No, not just someone: John!

 _That wasn’t right, was it? Why wasn’t that right? Wait, John was dead, wasn’t he?_

 _I must be hallucinating or dreaming_ , Sherlock thought sadly.

He said as much out loud. Or at least tried to with a croaking and grating voice, that didn’t seem to belong to him. But it was enough to stop the rambling.

“No, you idiot,” Not-John commented. “And you would be able to see that for yourself if you would just open your eyes.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he tried to moisten his dry mouth before he spoke again. “You’re alive,” he croaked, somewhat bewildered.

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” said John, grinning from a bed on Sherlock’s left. John still looked battered, but much less like a corpse than Sherlock’s memories would suggest.

“I thought ...”

“Well, you thought wrong,” interrupted John, his happiness at seeing Sherlock awake was easy to read. “I was just unconscious, as you would surely have been able to find out if you hadn’t thought it a good idea to leave the hospital half dead on your feet and without speaking to anyone.”

“I ...”

“No, I mean it. What’s so hard about asking ‘how is my flatmate’? ‘Oh, a concussion, you say? But he will be all right and wake up when he’s ready? That is great news.’ Just one little conversation, Sherlock. What were you thinking?”

“But I talked to someone ... Well, more exactly I heard someone talking. They spoke about a former soldier dying from injuries he got in an explosion. It was clear they meant you.”

“Sherlock,” John said, shaking his head resigned, “they didn’t mean me. You know, I overheard similar conversations, but unlike you I asked for more details. The soldier was stationed in Iraq, not Afghanistan. And he got his injuries in the explosion with the old lady, not at the pool. He died the night after you left the hospital.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock tried, not sure what was appropriate.

John sighed. “Just don’t do it again.” He stopped for a moment before softly adding, “I’m not worth it.”

Sherlock kept his opinion on that to himself. Mostly because he himself wasn’t quite sure about his own motives and what had driven him to act. He would have to analyze his actions at a later point as unfortunately his tired body demanded sleep first. There were still holes in the sequence of events over the last days, but there was only one thing Sherlock needed to know before he went under again.

“What happened to Moriarty’s body?” he asked.

“Mycroft’s people disposed of it. Quite handy, or else you would be on your way to jail now. You really should thank your brother.”

“Hmm ...” Sherlock was already half asleep.

“Not that Lestrade or the Yarders would waste any tears on Moriarty,” continued John. “But they also couldn’t have just ignored the circumstances of his death.”

Sherlock fought for some awareness again. There was something he’d forgotten to say. “I’m glad you’re all right, John,” he whispered before eventually giving in to sleep.

“Me too.”

* * *

Sherlock spent the next couple of days mostly sleeping. His waking periods became longer only slowly until he finally started spending more time awake than asleep. It didn’t take long for him to be bored out of his mind while at the same time annoyed at his recuperating body, which constantly demanded his attention. When it didn’t want sleep, it claimed to be hungry or demanded to use the loo – or a thousand other little things that proved to be daunting with a healing hole in your belly and broken ribs. Especially as one of them had punctured his lung so he had to spend the first days with a tube in his chest.

It left him in a sour mood despite John’s efforts to cheer him up. For Sherlock, his body was just transport, and he treated it like that, only giving in when he didn’t have a choice.

One afternoon Sherlock woke from another of his exhaustion-induced naps to a quiet room. A look to the other bed confirmed his assumption of being alone. He vaguely remembered John telling him about some scheduled tests to determine if he was healed enough to be released in a day or two.

Rustling from the other side alerted him to the fact he wasn’t as alone in the room as he’d thought. Sherlock whipped his head around. There was someone sitting in the chair beside his bed.

“Sherlock,” the figure said in greeting.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock acknowledged the presence of his brother.

“I must say, you’re looking much better since I saw you last.” Mycroft’s voice sounded almost bored as he inspected the nails of his right hand distractedly. But Sherlock didn’t miss the minute tremble in the hand. “And feeling better too, if the gossip in the hospital is anything to go by.” Mycroft directed his gaze to Sherlock. “Really? Making the nurses cry with your deductions just because they won’t let you leave yet?”

“They could always discharge me with John if they don’t like it.”

“I trust you are aware that you would long be back at Baker Street if you hadn’t decided to embark on your little foray.”

Sherlock started to become uncomfortable under his brother’s intense stare, he hated the feeling.

“I’m curious,” added Mycroft, “is this going to become a habit?”

“What?” spat Sherlock.

“That you go off the rails every time John is injured.”

“What do you care?” Something like guilt rose up in Sherlock as he saw Mycroft flinch almost imperceptibly. It increased as he spotted the expression of hurt flittering across Mycroft’s face, and he nearly apologized. But in the end he just averted his eyes and turned his head away. They were both too stuck in their ways - and too used to hurting each other.

“Believe it or not, there are people out there who care for you.”

Having been disappointed once too often in that regard, Sherlock reacted scornfully. “I don’t care!”

“Now you’re just being childish. You don’t have to hide behind indifference, especially after your actions of the last days. ‘Revenge is a confession of pain.’ The proverb sums it up nicely, don’t you think?” Mycroft paused and seemed to wait for a reaction from him. “You are allowed to show feelings, Sherlock,” he finally carried on when nothing was forthcoming.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, but didn’t respond otherwise. After long minutes of oppressive silence he heard Mycroft sigh and start to get up. His movements sounded as controlled as ever, but there was an underlying – unusual – defeat to them.

“Mycroft,” he blurted out unplanned the moment his brother opened the door. Mycroft froze. “I just wanted ...” Sherlock continued haltingly. “Well, John told me what you did after you found me. And I ... I ... Thank you.” He hadn’t said those two words to Mycroft for years.

“You’re welcome.” The faint smile on Mycroft’s face was for once neither patronizing nor superior.

Sherlock watched him leave. He was still staring at the door as it opened again a couple of minutes later.

“Oh, you’re awake, Sherlock,” said John, being wheeled to his bed by a nurse.

“John,” greeted Sherlock absentmindedly.

“Was that Mycroft I saw leaving?” John seemed to be in a good mood, judging by the tone of his voice. The examination must have resulted in satisfying news.

“Hmm ...”

“Please, Sherlock, tell me you didn’t offend him too much,” exclaimed John, sounding aggravated now. “Your brother has been really worried about you. For God’s sake, first he had to keep you from bleeding out and than he had to watch you being resuscitated.”

“I know,” grounded Sherlock out scathingly. “You told me that again and again.” He wasn’t willing to discuss his relationship with Mycroft with John now or ever. “You are worth it, you know,” Sherlock changed the subject abruptly.

“Wha …” John looked momentarily disoriented, but thankfully if he had learned one thing over the last months it was to follow the leaps of Sherlock’s mind. “You mean you risking your life just to avenge my imagined death?”

“Yes.”

“No! No, I don’t think so! Not if it means your death.” Sherlock watched John sitting down on his bed, staring intently at his hands. The nurse had long since left.

“Shouldn’t that be my decision to make?” Sherlock asked.

“No!” John looked up fiercely. “I know you said you’re not a hero. But regardless of your motives, you do a lot of good. Mrs. Hudson, Angelo and all the other people we met, going on and on about you helping them, tell me that you are in fact some kind of hero. Maybe not as polished and clear as Superman, more like Batman with your own dark side.

“Now look at me. You said it yourself, I invaded Afghanistan. The last I want is being responsible for denying the world Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t put me on some pedestal. And don’t sell yourself short. You have saved a lot of lives as army doctor; I’ve seen the medals you try to hide at the back of your drawer.” Sherlock didn’t care that his comment could be seen as another breach of John’s privacy.

“Maybe. But not anymore.” John sounded tired. “Just promise me you won’t do it again.”

“No!” Sherlock didn’t hesitate, needn’t even think about it.

“But ...”

“No. And in return I won’t make you promise not to try to exchange your life for mine anymore, like you did at the pool.” There was steel in Sherlock’s voice.

“That was different.”

“John,” threatened Sherlock. “This is my decision – like the pool was yours. I’ll give you this advice once. Never do anything like trying to restrict my life, just because you want to keep me safe. I’ll only resent you for it. Ask Mycroft.”

After a moment of silence he added drily. “On the bright side, I won’t stop you from voicing your objections in future situations. Who knows, maybe once or twice I’ll even heed your words. And I promise it’s your turn now to do something honourably stupid.”

Chuckling from both replaced the tension in the room.

Sherlock was aware the subject would probably arise again at a later time, but for now everything was as well as could be expected. Most importantly they were both alive and soon they would be able to seek new adventures.

He watched as John settled back into his bed and listened as he started to talk about the results of his latest tests.

* * *

End


End file.
